


Tea and Distractions

by apolesen



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Doctor Who: Eighth Doctor Adventures - Various Authors
Genre: Amnesia, Chance Meetings, EDA: The Turing Test, Earth arc, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, M/M, The implied relationship in question is Eight/Turing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-23 01:26:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4857968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apolesen/pseuds/apolesen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two temporal castaways meet in 1954, in a bombed-out city. It should be a non-linear meeting like any other, but this is different. The Doctor does not know who and what he is any more than he recognises River.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tea and Distractions

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by Tumblr user helloteeceeblog. I have been writing on this fic for a long time, and although I’ve been able to take River’s timeline into account, I’ve taken a free approach to things like to what extent she has Gallifreyan physical characteristics.

Halfway to Beta Antares IV, River’s vortex manipulator burnt out. The sudden burst of energy ripped her bag out of her hands. She only just managed to grab hold of her diary before she was flung out of the vortex.

Swearing, she got to her feet, brushing the grit off herself. She was in a back alley, and could hear the sound of a busy road nearby. The manipulator on her wrist was blinking irregularly. She slapped it. The blue light flickered and went out. She sighed, not even feeling like swearing. She put the manipulator in her pocket and went to scout her area. 

_Where have I ended up?_ River wondered and looked around to narrow down the possibilities. She tasted the air and looked at buildings and technology. Definitely Earth, twentieth century. London, she was pretty sure. She could not see any other women in trousers – people were staring at her sensible trousers and jacket. Definitely before the sixties, then, although that depended on where she was geographically. Across the street, a bomb site lay between two houses like the gap of a lost tooth. After the Second World War. 

Tired of the guessing game, River cast an eye on the wares of a newspaper salesman. 10 October 1954. With that piece of information acquired, she set down the street to find a clothes shop to raid. 

Not long after, she had got rid of her anachronistic, dirty clothes and changed into a better outfit. She had even taken the time to choose something she liked – a white dress with a green-and-yellow pattern of lemons and a petticoat. She put her diary and the vortex manipulator in the pockets. She kept her boots, as she rather liked the way it contrasted with the ladylike clothing.

River started walking aimlessly, watching how people and cars went past. There was a sense of lingering fatigue, but the bright autumn sun lifted people’s spirits. She smiled at passers-by, in particular those who looked at her in bewilderment. Her bare head and her big boots made her stick out.

As she walked, she turned her mind to the question of what to do in 1950s London. It was not really the place to be, with rationing and all that. But her vortex manipulator was broken for now. She’s need tools to fix it, and she did not know where to steal that kind of tools. She’d need something more specific than a set of screwdrivers and some pliers. Perhaps she should just enjoy being a time-tourist for a while. Maybe she could stow away on a transatlantic ship and go see her parents. It would not be very difficult, she reasoned. She would just have to get to a port – Liverpool, perhaps – which would mean getting on a train, but persuading a conductor that she had dropped her ticket, or stealing someone else’s, should be child’s play... 

She stopped suddenly. There, on the other side of the street, through the window of the café, something had caught her eye. 

It took a moment for her to realise what. All the men she had seen since she emerged from that alley had been short-haired, and had been in suits, jumpers and blazers. The man sitting on the other side of the window looked completely different. His curly hair almost reached his shoulders. Under the corduroy jacket, which could pass for contemporary, he was wearing a very worn brocade waistcoat. He was sitting hunched over the table, one hand dug into his hair as he leaned his head against it, the other furiously scribbling. River could not tell if it was that out-of-place look or his intensity that had made her pause. She took out her diary and searched the pictures until she found the photographs pushed into the binding. Among the polaroids, photo-booth slips and 3D memo-images, the Victorian studio portrait, set in a cream-coloured paper frame, was easy to find. The subject was an impeccably dressed gentleman with eccentrically long hair and a serious, almost mournful face. She looked up from it and over the street. There was no doubt. Of course it was him. 

She crossed the street at a run, putting the pictures and diary away as she ran. A driver, annoyed at her sudden appearance, sounded his horn at her. She did not look his way. Moments later she burst into the café. A few patrons looked up, but the Doctor was still bent over his notes. She made her way towards his table.

‘Doctor!’ 

He looked up now, pushing his hair out of his eyes. She thought he looked much sadder than she was used to seeing him, whatever his face. 

‘Do you know me?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she said and sat down opposite him. She was smiling now, glad that she had run into him. Being stranded in postwar London suddenly did not feel so bad. The Doctor did not return the smile, but frowned and leaned in. 

‘How?’ 

‘I’m a friend.’ 

‘How do I know you?’ he insisted. Her smile died, uncertain for once what lie to tell. ‘I’m sorry to ask,’ he said. ‘I have some... memory problems.’ 

‘Oh, no, it’s not your memory,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s a bit complicated.’ 

‘I’m sure it is,’ he murmured. ‘What’s your name?’ 

‘River.’ 

‘Well, Miss River,’ the Doctor said, fixing her with his blue eyes. She thought now that he was very pale, and she was sure he was thinner than in that photograph. ‘Who am I?’ 

They sat in silence, looking at each other. Something wasn’t right, River reflected. What on earth did that question even mean? 

‘You’re the Doctor,’ she said finally. 

‘I know _that_ ,’ he snapped. ‘But what else? What can you tell me?’ Suddenly, his hand shot out and grabbed her around the wrist. ‘ _Who am I?_ ’ River pulled her arm out of his grip. He had seemed so passive before – where had this intensity, aggression even, come from? He must have realised that he had done something wrong, because now he pulled his hand over his eyes and exhaled shakily. ‘Perhaps we should talk somewhere else,’ he said, quietly again. 

‘Yes, I think so,’ she agreed. He collected his notes – some kind of calculation, she saw – and rose. She followed him outside, where he stopped, weighing from one foot to the other, evidently waiting for her. 

‘I live nearby,’ he said when she stepped outside. ‘We could talk there.’ He spoke without looking at her, hands in his pockets. 

‘Yes, that would work.’ He looked at her now and smiled briefly. It had a beautiful effect on his face. She smiled back.

‘Thank you,’ he said quietly and, turning on his heel, started walking. As they walked, she studied him out of the corner of her eye. What was going on? This was not just a case of crossing timelines. There was something strange about him. She had the impression that he was not entirely well. He looked like a man who had not slept properly for weeks, or had anything to smile about for years. She was used to the Doctor’s erratic moods – he could be snappish and irritable in any body – but the desperation she had seen in his face when he had grabbed her had been frightening. Despite that, it just made her more eager to get to the bottom of it all. Whatever the Doctor had to offer, she had been trained to trump him. She might no longer have the need to resort to violence, but she still followed the same impulses. 

As the Doctor had said, they did not walk very far. The area they entered was in worse shape than the one she had found herself in first. There were plenty of bombed-out houses where the rubble had not been carted off and new houses built. The house he lead her to, a handsome Victorian house, was at least intact, but the plaster was badly damaged, and some of the windows were boarded up. Inside, the stairwell had the air of decay. 

‘I’m on the top, I’m afraid,’ the Doctor said over his shoulder as he mounted the first steps of the spiral staircase. ‘It’s a bit of a climb.’ 

She tried to smile at him, to reassure him, but he had already averted his eyes. They climbed the stairs in silence, until they reached the top floor. The Doctor got his keys out, and as he picked out the right one, River sensed his attention returning to her. He unlocked the door and opened it for her, but instead of saying ‘welcome’, he said: 

‘I’m sorry I grabbed you. It was stupid.’ 

‘You didn’t hurt me,’ she said. She felt like reaching out and stroking his cheek, but she did not dare yet. He smiled (helplessly, she thought), and gestured towards the flat. She stepped in. As he closed the door behind them, he said: 

‘I’ll make some tea. So we can talk...’ 

‘Yes, please.’ He caught her eye briefly, and then stalked down the corridor to what she assumed was the kitchen. River stayed in the hallway. There was something jumpy over him, like a caged animal that was trying not to pace up and down. She guessed that asking would give no answers, so she would have to find them herself. Careful not to make a sound, she put down her bag and took her boots off, and tiptoed to the nearest door. 

It was a bathroom, which was as dilapidated as the stairwell had been. A bar of soap and a bottle of shampoo sat balanced on the edge of the bath. On the shelf beneath the mirror over the sink was a hairbrush and some shaving things. Why put these things here, when there were far more luxurious bathrooms in the TARDIS? River wondered. She slipped out again. There were only four doors in the hallway, two on each side. She glanced into the kitchen and saw the Doctor, who had taken off his corduroy jacket and was just in his shirtsleeves, watching the kettle. He seemed so caught up in guarding it that she dared to slip into the next room. 

This was just as cramped as the bathroom, but not because of how it was built but because of the furnishings. If it warranted a name, it was probably a study, but there was little order here. The bookshelves were overflowing, and there seemed to be as many books piled on the floor as were on the shelves. There were stacks of notes as well, and a heavy toolbox on the floor. The only table in the room was dominated by a large, intricate but clumsily built machine. River went closer and took a closer look. There was a record player of the old, heavy kind standing beside it, with a large tape attached to it. She looked over her shoulder to make sure that the Doctor was not there, and then pressed the ‘play’ button. It was stiff, and when she had pressed it, the sound which was played was incoherent. She stopped the tape almost at once and looked at the machine again. It must be a machine for speech encipherment, but by the look of it, it was not factory-made. River suspected that the Doctor himself had built it. 

Every inch of the table that was not taken up by the machines held papers and notebooks. She leafed through some of them. Most of them were calculations, which looked much like the ones the Doctor had been working on at the café. There were also several sheets covered with shorthand (River had not known that the Doctor knew shorthand, but she was not very surprised). Some of the papers had seemingly random words written in Gallifreyan in the margins. They were sloppily written, and looked almost like doodles, as if he did not know what he was writing. As she leafed through yet another notebook, it fell open where a newspaper cutting had been wedged into the spine as a bookmark. She smoothed out of the crinkled paper. It was an obituary, dated from July 1954. The man had been dead only a few months. She wondered what the clipping was doing here, at this strange workplace. It seemed unlikely that the Doctor had cut it out so carefully just to use it as a bookmark. She held it for another moment, wondering if the man it commemorated in only a few inches of text had played some part in the Doctor’s life. She replaced it carefully, making sure it all looked like it had before she came in. 

The door to the last room was open. She knew she had little time, but she wanted to see if there were more clues to be found. The bedroom was sparse in comparison to the cluttered study. There were a few books, and some letters, as well as a violin, with some sheet-music and a discarded pencil beside it, but other than that, the room was dominated by the one thing in this flat she recognised. 

‘There you are,’ she whispered and crossed to the TARDIS. It stood in the far corner, between a chest of drawers and the window, but even if it had been just like she was used to at first glance, something felt different. River had expected to feel its familiar hum when she touched the blue panels, but the TARDIS was silent and cold. When she looked up, she realised that the writing around the top was not there, the lamp was missing, and the windows were not transparent. ‘What’s happened to you?’ she asked the TARDIS. No answer came. She pushed at the door. It creaked open, but there was nothing behind it, only the inside of the blue wood. 

River felt a sick churning in the pit of her stomach. She had thought that something wasn’t right, but nothing like this. It was no wonder that the Doctor looked as haggard as he did, when the TARDIS was... what? Damaged? Dead? No, she couldn’t be dead. If she was, the Doctor would be in a much worse state. But even an injury like this to a TARDIS... 

She forced herself to pause and think. This was earlier in the Doctor’s time-stream, and therefore also the TARDIS’ time-stream, than she usually ended up. Whatever had happened would be undone eventually, as she had seen the Doctor have a functioning TARDIS in the future. Nevertheless... She stared into the empty space, which was slightly smaller than the outside, and felt again the wrongness of it. 

‘Miss River?’ 

The Doctor’s call brought her back to reality. Suddenly she remembered that she was trespassing, and quickly, she hurried back into the hall and walked into the kitchen. Instead of a table, there was an antique couch and an ornate table. The study must have started out as a living-room or a parlour, until the Doctor moved the kitchen table in there to work, and left the couch and coffee table in the kitchen. It felt like an act done by someone who spent little time here.

‘Tea,’ the Doctor said by way of explanation and smiled weakly. River smiled back. This preoccupation with tea was sweet, but she thought he was actually just stalling for him. This kind of awkwardness felt out of character. He felt stretched, or washed-out, with pieces of himself missing. 

Looking away, River sat down on the couch and arranged her skirts. 

‘How long have you lived here?’ she asked. The Doctor got out tea-cups and filled them. 

‘A few months. I’m just in London to...’ He paused. ‘...tie up loose ends. Sugar? Milk?’ He fussed over the tea for a few more moments, and then said: ‘They’re talking about tearing down the house. There’s just me and an old lady on the second floor, and with the façade in that state...’ 

The Doctor trailed off. All of a sudden, he seemed to have lost any interest in idle talk. He rounded the table and sat down beside her. 

‘You said you know me.’ 

‘I do,’ River said. The Doctor looked her straight in the face, as he seemed to strain his memory. As he tried to remember, his lips parted slightly. River noticed that one of his canines was missing, a flaw in his beautiful face. 

Finally he sighed and looked away, defeated. River sipped her tea and watched him run a finger around the rim of his teacup, but he did not pick it up. It took several minutes before he spoke again. 

‘I’m sorry,’ he said without looking at her. ‘When I said I had some trouble with my memory, I meant it.’ 

‘What kind of trouble?’ she asked. The Doctor shrugged. 

‘I have no memories beyond a certain point,’ he explained. ‘None at all.’ He glanced over at her, as if to make certain. ‘And I don’t believe you. You can’t have known me. You’re too young.’ 

‘What does my age have to do with anything?’ she asked, stung, and put down her teacup and saucer. Now he turned his intense eyes on her again. 

‘You can’t be more than thirty-five. My memories start in 1894 – sixty years ago. If we knew each other, I would remember it.’ 

_He really doesn’t remember anything,_ River realised with a pang. Hearing the Doctor of all people preach the linearity of time... it was wrong. No wonder she thought he seemed unlike himself, if he had lived all of sixty years in a straight line. 

‘It’s not that simple,’ was all she could say. ‘You must know that it’s not.’ He looked away from her. ‘Doctor, even if you don’t remember, you must have seen things that don’t make sense – you must know that the world is more complicated than this time thinks it is...’ 

He sighed. By the way he turned towards her, it looked like he was surrendering. 

‘Can you prove it? That you know me?’ 

‘Yes,’ said River and put her hand against the right side of his chest. Her fingers slipped under his waistcoat. Through the linen of his shirt, she could feel the beating of his heart. 

The change it had on the Doctor was subtle, but it was enough. Something in his eyes shifted. They widened in surprise, they lit up with delight, they relaxed with this new knowledge. He put his hand over hers to keep it there. She flexed her fingers against his chest. Hesitantly, he wet his lips with his tongue. 

‘Please tell me. Who am I?’ 

Instantly, River made a decision. She might not be a Time Lord, but she had a sense of Time. It was not her place to tell him what he had forgotten, but she could not refuse such a pitiful request. Her previous hesitation about touching him was gone now. She cupped his cheeks in her hands and leaned closer. 

‘You’re a good man.’ 

The Doctor blinked a few times and swallowed heavily. 

‘No. No, that’s not me.’ He encircled her wrist with his fingers. This time, his grip was tender. He did not try to price away her hand. 

‘It is.’ 

‘I’ve killed people,’ he whispered. ‘I have left people to die.’ 

‘Not by choice,’ she answered, convinced. 

‘I don’t know,’ the Doctor said earnestly, meeting her eye. ‘Perhaps I have.’ 

‘It doesn’t matter,’ River said. ‘I know you. You do what’s right.’ 

He reached out and stroked her cheek. Briefly, he touched the side of her mouth. Then he shook his head. 

‘You’ve got the wrong man, Miss River.’ 

‘River’s my first name,’ River said. 

‘It’s a strange name,’ the Doctor said, his hand still against her cheek. ‘But certainly less strange than no name at all.’ He glanced down suddenly, towards her. ‘Are you... like me?’ 

‘What do you mean?’ she asked. 

In answer, he reached out and put his hand just over her right breast. They sat in silence for a moment, with their hands pressed against each other’s hearts. Then River took his hand and moved it to the left side.

‘I only have one.’ 

The Doctor smiled and frowned at the same time, trying to hide his disappointment. As though he wanted to make sure, he leaned down, and replaced his hand with his ear. It was cold against her skin, but River smiled to herself, compelled by this intimacy. A thrill run through her body and found a seat between her legs. She ran her fingers through his curls, which tickled her skin as they fell back into place. He shifted, and pressed his cheek against her breast. 

‘You wouldn’t take my word for it, would you?’ she whispered. 

He came up to face her. 

‘Oh, there’s certainly a heart there,’ he said. The way his eyes shone convinced her that he knew what was about to happen. She leaned in and kissed him. 

River had kissed this man so many times, but she never knew how it would be with a new body. Even the ones which were used to it were often still uncertain of how to respond. But here, there was no hesitation. As she planted her mouth upon his, his lips relaxed. She took his lip between hers for a moment, then pulled back a little. He closed the gap between their faces almost at once, and nipped at her lip. Then he tilted his head to push closer. Little by little, they melted into each other. When the Doctor’s tongue first touched River’s, she wrapped her arms around his neck in delight and surprise. This incarnation really knew how to kiss, she reflected. He must have had practice. That thought did not upset her, but it did make her curious. She made a mental note of asking later, perhaps when she met one of the later incarnations who didn’t have memory problems. 

They broke apart to catch their breaths. The Doctor smoothed River’s hair back as she rested their foreheads together. 

‘I’ve just met you,’ he whispered. _Ah, he’s one of the ones who likes commitment,_ she noted. _Not like Bow-tie who would snog anyone with a pretty face or two._

‘I’ve known you most of my life,’ River said. ‘That’s got to count for something?’ He leaned back a little, frowning. 

‘Nothing you say should make sense,’ he said. ‘So why does it feel so natural?’ 

River hesitated. Slowly, she ran her fingers over his lips. 

‘Does _this_ feel natural?’ 

The Doctor looked down at her hand by his face and kissed her fingers. 

‘Yes.’ 

She took away her hand and kissed him again. 

They pressed close, embraced, kissed. They breathed each other’s breath. Their hands found each other, then trailed up arms not their own. Both grew restless at the inevitable air between their bodies, and tried to get closer. The Doctor tried to hug her against him, but he did not seem able to keep his hands still. After a while, River hiked her skirt up and straddled his lap. For a moment they broke apart, and the Doctor grinned at her. She grinned back at the sudden spark in his eye. There was that man she knew, not dejected and confused, but adventurous and dauntless. She leaned down, brushed their lips together, pulled away playfully and kissed him properly. He kissed back eagerly, his hands wandering from her shoulders to her arms to her legs. When they next broke apart, he glanced down at her cleavage. With a swift glance at her face, begging permission, he leaned in and kissed her skin. River tensed, held her breath, exhaled. He moved and kissed her again, and again, and again. She grabbed his wrist and guided his hand until it cupped her breast. He touched her nipple through the dress. 

‘Oh, Doctor...’ As her chest rose with the gasp, he took the opportunity to draw a line down between her breasts with his tongue. She rocked against his knee as best she could. He started trying to unbuttoning the dress, but his fingers slipped. River batted his hands away and did it herself. It was he who pulled at the parts of the dress, though, and made her breasts spill out. He stared at them, his breathing as heavy as River’s. She unbuttoned his waistcoat and slipped her hands beneath it. That seemed to spur him into action. He took her nipple into his mouth. River watched him, mesmerised. When he put his hands on her breasts instead, she grabbed his chin and kissed him again. They broke apart, and the Doctor moved one of his hands to her thigh. 

‘River?’ 

‘Yes?’ 

‘Are we about to...?’ 

‘ _Yes,_ ’ she said and grabbed his head to kiss him again. As their lips joined, she tugged at his shoulder and started moving off his lap. They moved slowly but in unison, never breaking the kiss. Only when River lay down her back against the sofa did he leave her lips to shift so that he knelt between her parted legs. She pulled him over her and kissed his ear and neck. Leaning onto his elbows, he did the same to her, then kissed her again on the mouth, and edged backwards and stepped off the sofa. His hand remained on her knee, as if were a promise. Now, he leaned down and kissed it as he untied her boots. He was consciously drawing it out, teasing her. She could see in his eyes, darkened by his pupils, that he knew it. Despite her impatience, that made her squirm. One by one, he pulled the boots and the socks off her feet. He took her bare feet in his hands and traced them up over her legs. At the knees, he changed the angle and stroked the inside of her thighs. She threw her head back, too frustrated even to watch. His hands were frustratingly close. He drew his knuckles over the wet cotton. Then his fingers continued their slow ascent, until they reached the elastic of her knickers. 

‘Doctor, come on,’ she panted. She could hear him shuffling. When she looked up, she realised that he was kneeling on the floor. He kissed the inside of her thigh and at the centre of her arousal, then pulled at her underwear. She lifted herself to help him. Lifted one foot, then the other. The knickers fell to the floor, forgotten, as the Doctor pushed her petticoats back. 

The sensations of his tongue against her sent a shock through her body. It bloomed from between her legs into her belly and travelled upwards, until she felt herself shaking. He took hold of her legs and leaned deeper in. His tongue slipped between her labia, saliva mingling with the wetness. The tip found her clit. Her eyes fluttered shut, but the next swipe of the Doctor’s tongue made her open them wide again. She stared up at the ceiling, but she barely registered the pattern of cracks or the blotches of damp. The decaying house around her was unimportant now. All she cared about was the Doctor, who had raised himself onto his knees and changed angle. She raised her head to look at him instead. The sight of his auburn locks spreading over her thighs and touching the hem of her petticoat made new thrills go through her. Her head fell back again. Her sight seemed to mist over, her mind not able to keep all her senses up at this onslaught of sensation. The Doctor eased off a little, and just as she was about to ask him to continue, she felt his fingers join his tongue. After a moment, he raised his head and asked: 

‘Is this alright?’ 

River nodded. 

‘Yes,’ she said, panting. ‘A little more than alright. Just... just go on.’ 

The Doctor kissed the inside of her thigh, and leaned in again. River’s breathing sped up, until it came only in small gasps. She felt uncovered and opened where she lay sprawled on the hard couch, but there was no discomfort in it, only excitement. Her muscles were tensing – it felt as though they would never relax again – and yet they kept tensing. Pressure was building under the Doctor’s tongue and fingers, which had nothing to do with how hard he was pressing. Her nerves were vibrating, overloading, straining. Her gasp turned into a cry. She wanted to call out his name - his real name – he always used to like when she did that – but this Doctor... He did not know. She so wanted to tell him, to call it out and give him that gift of an identity. Instead, she bit her fist and groaned as she came, her mind filled with his name. 

Little by little, her body relaxed. Slowly, she stretched her legs and pulled them closer to her body. The Doctor crawled onto the couch again. 

‘Are you alright?’ he asked. The way he looked made her smile. His hair stood like a messy halo around his pale face, and his lips looked rather like he had been biting them. She reached out, pulled her thumb over his mouth and then kissed him. He kissed back, grabbing her wrist to keep her close. When they pulled apart, he put his free hand on her chest, between her bare breasts. She covered his hand and met his eyes. 

‘That’s quite a heart-rhythm.’ His breath was as shallow as hers. 

‘What else would you expect, Doctor?’ she asked. She parted her lips and tilted her head. He stared at her, then answered the prompt, and kissed her, open mouth on open mouth. Once they broke apart, he leaned down to kiss the vein on her neck. River stroked his hair, keeping him there. 

‘Doctor?’ He hummed against her skin. ‘Bedroom?’ Her hand slid from his neck. 

‘Yes.’ He got up first and pull her to her feet. She stumbled a little; by the way his arm circled her waist, she thought he planned it. She leaned in and kissed him again, as she grabbed his shirt and untucked it. Her hands slid in, first up his chest and then his back. His hands in turn came to rest on the small of her back. Then they both seemed to remember the decision they had just made. They broke apart, laughing at their own distraction, and with their arms around each other they left the kitchen. On their way towards the bedroom, the Doctor leaned down and kissed River’s forehead. By the time they reached the bedroom door, they were embracing again, clinging to each other. River untied the Doctor’s cravat and let it fall to the floor. In the meantime, the Doctor shrugged off his waistcoat. Together, they unbuttoned his shirt. Even in the half-light let in through the gap in the curtains, she admired the shape of his chest. She reached out and ran a hand over it. The Doctor smiled at her, almost uncertainly. River pushed the shirt off his shoulders. What she saw surprised her. Both his upper arms were covered in tattoos. The ink was fading, and had bled in some places, but she could still discern the bright colours. Ships, sea-monsters, mermaids, anchors. Involuntarily, she imagined how the pigment would be burned away by the regenerative force which would rack his body so many times until she knew him again. Then, pushing that thought aside, she kissed him again. She felt him undoing her remaining buttons. With a tug, the dress slid down onto her hips. With another, it fell from her entirely, petticoats and all. She stepped out of it, feeling at once exposed and sensual. The Doctor did not so much look as stare. 

‘You’re beautiful,’ he said finally. She smiled. 

‘It took you this long to notice that, did it?’ she said and pulled him close. She angled his head so that she could kiss him and started undoing his trousers. As she pulled down his fly, he swallowed and said, sounding suddenly nervous: 

‘River, I don’t have any... you know... if we’re about to...’ 

She pecked him on the lips. 

‘It’s alright,’ she said. ‘We’re not genetically compatible. And I’m vaccinated to anything from this era anyway.’ 

‘Right,’ the Doctor said and grinned, still looking rather awkward but obviously very pleased. ‘Good.’ He struggled out of his trousers and, both of them naked now, grabbed her by the hand. It was she who pulled him to the bed. Carelessly, he moved the violin and the notes onto the floor. He pushed the blankets aside, but she tugged at him, making him leave it. They fell upon each other, kissing each other’s lips, necks, chests. Their hands explored each other. Between shallow breaths, they whispered to one another. ‘This?’ ‘Is this alright?’ ‘Like that...’ River pushed her hips up, and wrapped her arms around his waist. His eyes were bright, an inch from hers. She guided him, pushing up. His eyes widened as he sunk into her. He stared at her, an animal frozen in the headlights. Again, she pushed up against him. As if this was the instruction he needed, he exhaled and started moving. River’s hands wandered down, to grab his hips. They found a rhythm, in time with their breathing. Some moments, the Doctor looked into her eyes, his mouth open with pleasure. Others, he closed his eyes and threw his head back, seemingly lost in the absence of his memories. She wondered, briefly, if he was thinking about other loves, which he could remember, but even if he did, the manner of his absence was not negligence. When he looked at her, it was genuine. As he leaned lower down, she kissed his shoulder. He buried his face in her hair. 

‘River...’ 

His name was on her lips. It almost escaped her. Instead, she groaned and held him tighter. They shuddered against each other for a long moment. Then the Doctor exhaled and slumped against her. His hair tickled her breasts. With some effort, he pulled out and lay down beside her. 

‘Are you okay, Doctor?’ 

He nodded, eyes turned towards the ceiling. She could feel him trembling against her. When she sat up and looked at him, she saw a tear running from his eye. 

‘Doctor...’ She lay down again and pulled him into an embrace. His short breaths played over her skin. She rocked and hushed him. There was a huge relief in the way he cried, but there was also sadness. He cried because he was lonely – even now, in bed with her, lying in her arms, he was alone. She was still different. 

Sooner than she had thought, he drew a deep breath and collected himself. 

‘Sorry,’ he murmured. 

‘It’s alright,’ she said and stroked his hair. ‘You were just a bit overwhelmed.’ He nodded. They lay in silence for a while, she on her back and he on his side, his head propped against her. 

Eventually he spoke. 

‘So I’m not human.’ 

She looked at him curiously. 

‘You said we weren’t genetically compatible.’ He raised his head and looked her in the eye. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘For some reason, you can’t say. Anyway, I’m not surprised. I’d suspected it. Come to think of it, it’s pretty obvious.’ 

‘When did you realise?’ she asked. 

He shrugged. 

‘It took years – decades. But by the war I knew. The most recent one, I mean. I’ve met some people... unlike others, but not like me. Never like me.’ 

She stroked his face tenderly. _Because there aren’t any,_ she thought. _But you don’t know that yet. It hasn’t happened to you yet._

‘Do you really remember nothing?’ River asked. 

‘Nothing before waking up on that train…’ He stared into nothingness, thinking back. Then he closed his eyes in frustration. ‘Sometimes I get flashes. But they never make any sense.’ 

‘Not even with prompting?’ she asked. He shook his head. ‘When did you get your tattoos?’ 

‘In 1933,’ he said. ‘That was after.’ 

‘What about your tooth?’ she asked. ‘How did you lose that?’ 

He shook his head. 

‘I have no idea,’ he said. ‘It must have happened before.’ 

It was strange hearing him speak like this, sorting events into the misty ‘before’ and the certain ‘after’.

‘And thinking about it doesn’t bring anything back?’ 

‘No. Not a thing.’ 

She tried to think about something else to ask, then settled on the obvious thing. 

‘Here,’ she said. ‘Tell me about that.’ She pointed to the TARDIS. The Doctor followed her finger.  
‘My box? I don’t know really what to tell...’

‘Have you always had it?’ she asked. Perhaps there were some clues to what had happened to him there. 

‘Yes,’ the Doctor said. ‘As long as I can remember. It hasn’t always looked like that. Early on, it was just...’ He held his hand up and indicated two inches between his thumb and index finger. He frowned. ‘Small. Just a cube. It...’ He brought his fingers apart until his hand was open. ‘...grew.’ 

The way he stared at it was heart-rending. He knew this was something which was possible, as he had seen it happen, but all the same, he (of all people!) could not quite believe it. When living in a world where something growing and changing like that was considered an impossibility, he had no means of explaining it, which made it seem less plausible. She imagined that he sometimes stopped and thought, _did it really grow from that cube? Or have I always had it and simply forgot about it? Did I make it up?_ She wondered whether he ever wondered if he was simply insane. 

‘Come here,’ she said and opened her arms to him. Gratefully, he moved closer. His head came to rest on her shoulder, his hand on her stomach, his knee against her calf. They lay in silence for a long time. River drew her fingers through his hair, and thought of things to ask. There was one thing in particular she was curious about, but it took her a long time to muster the courage to speak. 

‘What is the machine in the study?’ 

The Doctor shrugged off her arm and rolled onto his back. River moved with him, flopping over onto her stomach and putting her feet against his. He stared up at the ceiling, one hand under his head and the other resting on his chest. At first River wondered whether he was going to challenge how she knew about it, but his face was not severe, simply pensive. He seemed to walk through his answer in his mind before speaking. 

‘It’s a speech encipherment machine.’ 

‘And you built it yourself?’ 

The Doctor nodded. River shifted closed and kissed the hand on his chest. He rotated it and touched her cheek. 

‘Where did the blueprints come from?’ 

‘It’s all very hush-hush, you know.’ 

‘I’m not going to tell anyone,’ River said. ‘I just want to know because it’s important to you.’ 

The Doctor smiled a little, as if surprised she had noticed. 

‘I didn’t have the blueprints,’ he said.

‘Then how did you build it?’ 

The Doctor’s mouth went thin. No sign of the smile was left.

‘I knew the man who built it. I know how he thought. And I’ve got a tape.’ 

‘You reverse-engineered it?’ River said, pulling herself up onto her elbows. After all this time, the Doctor could still able to surprise her. ‘And you have _one_ tape? How long is it?’ 

‘Four hours, or thereabouts.’ 

‘And you’re deciphering it?’ 

Again, he nodded. But something was wrong. The Doctor should be grinning at his own cleverness. Instead, he lay there, every muscle in his face slack. 

‘What’s on the tape?’

‘It’s an account. I... I need to know what it says.’ River nodded, and prompted him with a look. ‘It’s by... a friend. If friend is the right word.’ A spasm went through his face. It made it look almost like he smiled, had it not been for his eyes. They shone, covered in tears. River was about to reach out to touch him, but the Doctor sat up abruptly. She sat up too, and watched him struggle against the tears. 

‘We… met during the war,’ the Doctor said. He paused and swallowed. River felt the presence of things unsaid. ‘Three months ago…’ His voice broke, turning into a sob. Momentarily, he stopped to fight it. River watched helplessly as the tears streaked his face and trailed his jaw. One fell onto his collar-bone and pooled in the dip. She wanted to reach out and comfort him, but she was afraid he might lash out. Instead, she sat without doing anything for several minutes, until the Doctor took a deep breath and regained control over his silent weeping. His voice was raw as he continued speaking. 

‘The encryption key repeats every seven minutes. I didn’t know at first, but he mentions it at the very beginning of the tape, so all I had to do was to break into the first few seconds. So now, I find the key, listen to seven minutes and copy them down. Then I start working on the next key, copy down the next seven minutes...’ He trailed off. No wonder he looked so bad, reflected River, grappling with complex codes simply to get at a dead man’s voice. ‘And then when I’m done... he’ll be dead for real. There’ll be nothing of him left.’ The Doctor looked at her, almost pleadingly. ‘He will never speak to me again.’ Now River reached out and stroked his hair, trying to comfort him. He barely seemed to notice she was there now. ‘I didn’t know,’ he said suddenly. He was crying again, pulled between anger and grief. ‘I was too busy flitting about, feeling sorry for myself, to stop and realise that he might need me… I didn’t _know_!’ 

River took his face between her hands. 

‘Whatever happened, you can’t blame yourself,’ she said. ‘It’s not your fault.’ 

The Doctor looked her in the eye. 

‘I think it was.’ 

‘Doctor…’ She had run out of words. He pulled away and hung his head. The curls fell over his face, hiding his tears. Not knowing what else to do, River put her arms around him. For a moment he remained stiff, then he relaxed against her. Their naked bodies rested against each other in simple consolation. She stroked his hair and hushed him. His sobs continued as though there was nothing in him but tears. _It must stop soon,_ she thought. _Mustn’t he run out of tears soon?_ Then the thought struck her, that what if this was the last time she would see him? She had always been afraid of that day, and she had told herself now that surely this could not be it. But there was no way of knowing. Perhaps this was how their last meeting before her death would be, with her comforting him as he wept for someone else. 

She did not know how long he cried. At long last, his sobs became more shallow, and his head grew heavier against he shoulder. Carefully she shifted and let go of him. The Doctor wiped his eyes, looking shame-faced. 

‘Is this why you’re in London?’ River asked, tentatively. He nodded. ‘And when you’re done…?’ He shrugged. ‘What will you do with the tape?’ 

‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘I just thought that if I decrypted it… there might be something…’ 

‘Like a message?’ 

He looked at her for a moment. 

‘Assurance.’ He sighed. ‘I would say forgiveness, but you can’t be forgiven by the dead. And I don't know whether I deserve it.’ He took her hand, pressed it, and turned it around to study her palm. Then, letting go, he said: ‘I just need to know what he says. Perhaps I’ll understand why…’ His voice broke. River took his hand. 

‘And then?’ 

‘I can’t stay here,’ the Doctor said. ‘I’ve been in Britain for too long. And with this…’ He considered his words. ‘I want to go somewhere. Somewhere I’ve never been. Or that I don’t remember, at least. Somewhere in Asia, perhaps.’ He looked down at her hand, holding his, and covered it with his free hand. ‘What will you do, River?’ 

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘We’ll see.’ 

He looked lost in thought for a minute, then looked at her, his face softer suddenly. 

‘Would you come with me?’ 

River laughed, caught unawares. He smiled at her. 

‘Is that funny?’ he asked. There were still trails of tears on his face, but his smile lit up his face. 

‘I didn’t expect it,’ she said. ‘You said yourself that you don’t know me.’ 

‘But you know me,’ the Doctor said. ‘River, I need to know. I need to understand.’ 

The laughter died in her throat. She pulled her hand out from between his, wishing there was some way for the gesture to seem less like a rejection. 

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. He watched her with no sign of understanding. 

‘Why?’ he whispered. ‘Is it so bad you can’t tell me?’ 

‘It’s not…’ She interrupted herself and started over. ‘I can’t tell you. But Doctor, I promise. You will learn it. Just… not now.’ 

He sighed and looked away. 

‘At least it’s less than half a century now.’ 

She did not know what he meant, but his momentary anger at her seemed to have passed. Reaching out and cupping his cheek, she said: 

‘Let’s not think about the past or the future. I can’t come with you, but… we have the present.’ 

It made perfect sense, River thought. They could not talk without stumbling over something that she could not tell him or he did not want to tell her, but right now, they needed each other. She leaned in and kissed him. He kissed her back, as if her lips against his surprised him. Their lips locked, and their bodies converged. They embraced and touched, the clumsiness as enflaming as the contact. River straddled him, pushing him back into the mattress. He watched her, his chest heaving, his eyes alight. They shared a glance – enough to communicate yes – and River pushed down onto him, enveloping him. The Doctor’s head lolled, his eyes wide-open in ecstatic shock. As River started moving, her breathing was so rapid that she thought it might stop as soon as she orgasmed. 

They fucked with uncommon ferocity. This carnal act, so filled with mute and confused love, was the only thing that made them real here and now. River thought of the empty house around them, waiting to be demolished; the maimed TARDIS and her wounded master; the dead man’s voice trapped under layers of encryption. She leaned over the Doctor, looking him in the eye. For all she knew, the world was dissolving around them, little by little, death by death. In this moment, they were the eye of the storm. 

River thought it would never end. Nevertheless, it could not have been many minutes from the beginning, until they collapsed, spent, becoming part of the world again. River rolled onto her back, gasping. The Doctor pulled himself closer, putting his head on her shoulder. 

‘River?’

‘Yes?’ 

‘Tell me it’ll all be fine.’ 

‘It will,’ River said with conviction. ‘It’ll all be fine. I know that.’ She leaned down and kissed his forehead. ‘Whatever happens, remember that, Doctor.’ 

‘This too shall pass,’ he murmured. 

River did not know what to say to that. This - the amnesia, the isolation, the exile from Time – would indeed past, but so would their love, in time. She just hoped this was not that time,which she feared so much. Even if it was not, it reminded her that eventually, it would come. 

‘I love you,’ was all she could say. 

The Doctor was already asleep.

River lay without moving for a long time. The Doctor’s heavy head anchored her to the bed, but so did her thoughts. He had asked her to come with him, and she had refused. Now, stranded in the no-man’s-land between sleep and wakefulness, River wondered if she should not take him with her instead. Even if it was not comfortable, it was possible to travel two on a vortex manipulator. She could save him from this dreary existence. More than that, it would be an opportunity to lead. 

But she knew in her bones that she could not do that. She did not know what awaited this Doctor, but it was not her and her vortex manipulator. 

Carefully, she extracted herself from under the Doctor and got out of the bed. Wrapping herself in the Doctor’s dressing-gown, she padded over the floor to where she had discarded her dress. She took out her diary and wrote a quick note, enough to remind her of what had happened:

> London, October 1954, in a derelict house. Tea and distractions.

She put the diary back into her dress-pocket. With the dress and petticoat under her arm, she left the bedroom. The vortex manipulator rested heavily against her arm through the cloth. What she had needed was tools, and now she knew where to find them. She made her way to the study the Doctor had fashioned from the sitting room. In the failing light seeping through the window, the speech-encipherment machine looked like a hulking beast. The tool box was on the floor, amid the Doctor’s scattered notes and short-hand accounts. She sat down among them, the dressing-gown trailing around her and disturbing the order of the papers. She did not pay it any heed. Instead, she took out the vortex-manipulator and started mending it, sitting in the middle of the only remnants of a dead man’s voice. 


End file.
